The Colours, Man, The Colours
Spiritdoll posted her Colour exercise. This is what mine turned up this time:
I am Yellow. I am summer-colour. I sound like the humming of bees in clover, the swish of high grasses. I am the colour of sunshine and warmth. I smell of sweetness, honey and fresh bread, roses' centres. I am summer's colour, heat and slow days. I am the drone of distant lawnmower, the flicker of a butterfly's wing, the flash of a goldfinch in the lilac tree. I am happy, cheerful. I am bright, joyful, glowing. I say Yes.
When I did the Artist's Way in 1998, the colour was different. Here's what came out:
I am Green: the colour of earth and earth-lovers, the colour of new life in spring. I am green, the colour of the ocean in its most special places, and of the grass-ocean that waves in the fields. I am green that tints the birds' egg, their feathers. Green in the eyes - the flecks you see. I am green for growth and new energy and rising sap. I am green for freshness of the larch needles. I am green, heart-colour, home-colour. I am green for the land, for Ireland. I am the green that gives rest to the eye, peace to the soul. I am green, the woodland glade, and the elven lights that dance in it. I am green.
And one of my poems:
Song of Purple
I am night-sky, mountain, heather;
the sea in its deepest places,
the rocks that it hides;
the colour taken on by periwinkles in their hidden crevices.
I am crocus, iris,
lilac wants to be me,
rhododendrons crave my depth.
I am blue eyes darkening, the colour of bruises.
I am the land before storms,
the colour in the trees as they lose their last leaves.
I am the lofty colour that still clings to earth in its lowest places:
the steep cleft between rocks - look, not black, but purple;
when you dig the earth you think is brown, look, look for me.
You'll find me there in the crumbled shale of earth's own surface.
I am the colour in the depth of the fire,
at the core of its heat - watch for the purple flame, feel its power.
I am in the sheen of a raven's wing, the spot on a salmon's back,
in the deep woodland flowers,
tiny ones that only scent the air
at certain times, from secret half-seen places
hidden in the purple shadow of last year's leaf-mould.